Future Tense
by fulfilled
Summary: The future flashes before them as the elevator doors close, cutting them off from each other. RL, 'Partings.'


This is how it goes.

Rory will go back to bed after Logan leaves, but she won't sleep. Instead, she'll wrap herself around his pillow, still dismayed that she didn't wake up when he slid from her arms. Eventually, she'll doze, a fitful sleep plagued with dreams of the Union Jack chasing her, a flag with legs, finally wrapping her up and smothering her.

He'll call as soon as his plane lands, talking to her through customs and the baggage claim, through the car ride to "his" flat (although he'll swear up and down that it's nothing more than a long-term hotel), until their phones simultaneously run out of battery, and then they'll each sit, grasping the small pieces of plastic as though they can touch through them.

The first few weeks will be resigned phone calls, filled with longing and loneliness. They'll talk, though, during those months, because they won't be able to do much else. Sometimes, they'll rent the same dvd and watch a movie together; sometimes she'll take him "out" on her cell phone when she's with a group of friends; sometimes, he'll inconspicuously let her sit in on his day at the desk. More often than not, though, they'll just talk.

She'll adjust her schedule to match his; once classes let out, she'll have fewer constraints on her time, so for the summer at least, she'll be available all afternoon, at least three days a week, and he'll spend his evening—her afternoon—on the phone with her. They'll go through the rhythms and routines of the day alone together, and they'll learn to make that enough, at least for now.

When he wakes up in the morning, he'll call her, and every day, he'll laugh at her sleepy mumbles, because even though she knows it's him calling, she still won't be very awake at 1:45. When she wakes up a few hours later, she'll call, catching him on his lunch break, and they'll say good morning again, and that will tide them over until he's off work, and she's free for the afternoon, and they talk all evening. In a way, she'll almost begin living in London time—five hours ahead of everyone else around her—but she won't mind too much.

It will be intense, and it'll seem, from the outside, like they depend on each other too much, but they'll both know that's impossible.

They'll begin the countdown the first time they talk (because starting it before he left was too depressing), and remind each other that it's only temporary. Her day-timer will have two handwritten numbers on every square: one will remind her of how many days until she sees him again; one will tell her how long until he's back for good. The months where these numbers are the same will be the longest, the ones that never seem to end, but even they will move forward at the same rate as the rest of time.

The summer will be as idyllic as any of it can be, and when it's all over, they'll look at those first few months with a gratitude they didn't know to have when it was "present," not "past." Those days of conversation, of the luxury of no class and less routine, will give them a foundation for the bleak, busy winter, when distractions are more easily found and conversations don't—can't—last as long.

In mid-July, Rory will return home from an afternoon of shopping with her mom, and she'll find Colin and Finn in her apartment for the first time—but she'll correctly assume that it's not the first time they've been there while she's out. They'll be playing pool in her living room, and they won't even be nonplussed when she finds them. They'll offer her a beer and tell her that she can play the winner, and she'll sigh and laugh.

That first time, she'll cut them some slack—after all, she'll reason, they miss him almost as much as she does. After the third time, though, she'll demand they return their "emergency keys," claiming that Paris and Lorelai will be far better stewards of them. The boys will pout, as only they can, but she won't budge. She'll tell they're always welcome, as long as they call ahead, and they'll take advantage of that for the rest of the year.

It'll become so predictable that often, when Logan calls on a weeknight after school starts, she'll pass him between the two boys while she does homework, and then they'll settle into a game of pool while she takes the phone to the other side of the apartment. By the time Rory and Logan say their goodbyes, Colin and Finn will be crashed on the couch, watching TV, and she'll have to kick them out so that she can go to bed.

He'll surprise her in October for her twenty-second birthday, flying in for a long weekend, slipping into bed beside her in the wee hours of the morning. She won't wake up, but she'll slide closer to him in her sleep, instinctively molding her body to his, falling back into the same sleeping patterns and habits without thought. He'll smile as he wraps his arms around her and falls asleep, exhausted from the flight.

When she wakes up, it'll take her a moment to realize what's different. She'll think she's waking up from a strange dream, and he never actually left in the first place. Then she'll realize that he did leave, but she'll wonder how her mom got into her apartment for the birthday ritual. Then she'll realize that her mother isn't this blonde, or muscled, or… oh! Her eyes will snap open and she'll kiss him awake, hands exploring the familiar territory of his body; tears and laughter and sighs and exclamations will punctuate their reunion.

They'll get better at goodbyes, but that won't make saying them any easier. She'll spend Thanksgiving in London; he'll come back to Connecticut for Christmas. They'll plan to meet in Paris for a stereotypically romantic Valentine's Day, but work will get in his way, and she'll be overwhelmed with midterms and papers, and with resignation, they'll vow to go next year.

Winter will be hard. Those bleak months after Christmas—after the semi-regularity of seeing each other at her birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas—will stretch out, long lines of calendar squares that will mock them both. The gloom and dark nights will add to their misery, and they'll fight more, cry more, listen less.

She'll spend a weekend in her childhood bedroom after a spectacularly loud fight, sobbing into her pillows, venting to her mother, cursing the Yale wall that's a tangible reminder of how they met, wanting to make it better, but not knowing how.

He'll spend the same weekend pacing the London streets near his flat, alternating between angry, frightened, frustrated, and royally pissed off, and back again. He'll feel powerless, and knowing that he can't instantly make it all better will make him swear to himself for the hundredth time that after this year, this distance won't happen again.

On a cold Monday in late February, they'll talk, and everything will be okay, despite the fact that each of them will have lived through the longest weekend of their lives. Still, they'll tread carefully on the grounds of their conversation, and there will be days when Rory will feel like she'll explode with things left unsaid, and moments when Logan will want to throw his glass against a wall, just to alleviate some of the tension.

This is when they'll miss the long conversations and the thrice-daily phone calls of summer. This is when they'll have to be satisfied with quick emails shot back and forth throughout the day and a half-hour conversation caught somewhere in the middle. This is when loneliness will be most intensified, when summer will seem a lifetime away, when temptations will be strongest, when believing in a future will be most difficult. This is when they'll make it or break it.

But they'll make it, and in mid-April, Rory will reciprocate his birthday surprise—she'll even be in cahoots with his father to plan a business lunch at a restaurant, and when Logan walks in, she'll be waiting for him, and he'll be bowled over. That, however, will almost (almost, but not quite, because seeing her unexpectedly will be the best surprise he could imagine) pale in comparison to that evening's surprise, when his sister and brother-in-law, along with his best friends and a few of his new London friends, are waiting at his place when they get back from their afternoon.

She'll breathe in his laughter as he kisses her, picks her up, and spins her around, and they'll both feel like a cloud has lifted and there's nowhere to go but up, after the past few months.

And they'll be right. Whether it's the warmth of spring, the anticipation of a homecoming, the afterglow of seeing each other, or some combination of all that, the last few months will drag on the calendar, but they'll pass in a blur of plans, hopes, dreams, and anticipation.

In May, things will come full circle, and he'll return home on the day of her Yale graduation. She'll fret and nearly worry herself sick because she won't see him before the ceremony, and she'll wait on pins and needles for someone to tell her that he's arrived, but no one will.

He'll arrive, hurried and out of breath, as the university president is giving the welcome and opening remarks. Lorelai will have saved a seat in their row, and he'll slide in, ignoring the dirty looks from the people beside him. Lorelai will raise an eyebrow and look at her watch, then her face will soften into a smile and she'll welcome him home as the next speaker gets up. She'll point out the back of Rory's head, and his eyes will be glued to it for the next two hours. He'll see her craning her neck, but their eyes won't meet yet.

When Rory's row gets up to walk across the stage, she'll almost lose step with the rest of the graduands as her gaze travels the audience, looking for the row of familiar faces. She won't see him until she's actually walking across, reaching out her left hand to take the scroll as her right hand shakes the dean's hand. He'll know the instant she spots him, though, because her eyes will light up and her face will glow, and he'll see the difference from all the way across the room. His face will break into a huge, uncontrollable grin, and they'll maintain eye contact for as long as they can before the girl behind her taps her on the shoulder and motions that she'll fall down the stage steps if she doesn't pay attention.

After the ceremony, she'll run to him, weaving through the crush of black gowns and flat hats, dodging flashing cameras and clusters of hugging friends and families, and she'll launch herself into his arms, holding on for dear life as they laugh and cry and kiss, oblivious to anyone else around them. Her mom will catch the moment on camera, and it'll be a favorite, blown up and framed in their apartment.

That's how it will go.

But now, she stands in the doorway, watching him walk towards the elevator, and all she can see is a big empty hole where he should be the most prominent.

But now, he drinks her in as the elevator doors close in front of his face, and he sees a thousand possibilities for the year ahead, reflected in her face.

But now…

* * *

**Author's Note: **This started as an exercise in tenses—I'm writing two multi-chapter stories right now, one in past and one in present tense, and I wanted to see if I could add a third tense without completely losing my mind. So, here we are—an exercise in grammatical vigilance! My biggest thanks to **adina** and **Missez Ventimiglia** for the beta—they're both awesome!

One small vocabulary note: For some reason, no one else seems to know what it means (and my spell-check keeps telling me that the word doesn't exist), but a graduand is actually, according to Merriam-Webster, "one about to graduate : a candidate for a degree."


End file.
